Apodyopsis
by Quinn Anderson
Summary: Apodyopsis: Noun. The act of mentally undressing someone. Johnlock smut. Sequel to "Gymnophoria" but can be read as a stand alone.


**Author's Note: **It took me forever to decide what direction I was going to go with this, but I've finally settled on something. This is a "sequel" to **Gymnophoria**, but they're not in the same universe. Well, I mean they technically are, since they're both not AUs, but the two don't have any relation to one another, basically, other than being based on similar concepts. They're a series.

So, enjoy some more word porn.

**Warning: **Porn. So much porn. This is porn. Between two men. Deal with it, nerd.

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**Apodyopsis**: (æpəʊdaɪˈɒpsɪs)

noun. the act of mentally undressing someone.

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Sherlock Holmes, much as he could be spectacularly ignorant at times, knew exactly what he was doing.

He kept his eyes down, pretending to be utterly absorbed in the experiment in front of him. The truth was, while he genuinely _was_ absorbed in an experiment, it wasn't the one his flatmate, Dr John Watson, presumed.

They were in their kitchen, seated across from each other at the worktop, and the tension between them was so thick it was palpable.

Sherlock held a glass pipette carefully above a petri dish, measuring out a single drop of clear liquid at a time with clinical precision. He could feel John studying him, noting the way his long fingers handled the instrument with unexpected delicacy. Goose bumps raised on his flesh as John's gaze shifted from his hand to his thin wrist before dragging slowly up to his shoulder. Sherlock knew exactly what he was looking at. He'd left the top button of his shirt undone on purpose. John was studying the elegant jut of collarbone under his skin. He was admiring the way his creamy flesh pulled taut over the sharp bone. He was thinking about what it would feel like to trace the line of it with his finger.

Sherlock fought the urge to shiver and forced himself to maintain his cool expression. If this experiment went according to his calculations, all would come to fruition shortly; it wouldn't do to lose patience now and bungle up the whole thing before it even began.

The glances had started a few weeks ago, the ones that lingered on Sherlock for just a moment too long. John thought he was being subtle, but of course he was wrong. Sherlock had noted the increased attention with mild interest and immediately began testing variables. If he left an extra button on his shirt undone, John's gaze lingered on him for approximately eight seconds longer than average. If he wore a particular pair of dress trousers that he knew had been impeccably tailored, the effect was the same. It wasn't difficult to deduce why. All it took were a few "accidental" brushes of their fingers when things were being passed between them and standing marginally closer to John than he normally did, and Sherlock riddled it out.

It was simple, really. He was amazed he hadn't seen it from the start.

His next move was a calculated one. Sherlock had been observing the women John brought home for some time—though he noted with satisfaction that it had been quite a few weeks since any woman but Mrs Hudson had been in their flat—and from his careful catalogue of their body types, he had discovered that John had a certain penchant for . . . . Well, to use the colloquial term that was irritatingly perpetuated by the local ilk, John was an "arse man". Sherlock, being in possession of one of the finest specimens of this particular anatomical feature on this side of the Thames—he had been reliably informed of this by a half-dozen construction workers—was more than prepared to take advantage of his natural gift, so to speak.

Wordlessly, he set the pipette down before climbing gracefully to his feet, strolling over to one of their bottom cabinets and shamelessly bending over to open it. He pretended to riffle around for something, all the while feeling John's burning gaze on him. He was definitely looking. There was no way he wasn't taking advantage of this opportunity to get a good, plump eyeful of something Sherlock knew he was dying to get his hands on.

He supposed he had to credit the man for the restraint he'd demonstrated thus far. John had obviously been struggling to hide it from him, all too aware of the nearly-omniscient gaze that was forever probing at him. He'd done an admirable job, for an idiot, Sherlock could admit. In the end, however, he intended to ensure John's exertions were futile. Sherlock saw how he jumped when their skin brushed together, as if he'd been electrocuted. He saw how his ears flooded with blood when Sherlock stood just a little too close to him. He saw how much he squirmed when Sherlock sat next to him on the sofa, reached into his lap and spent far too long digging around in the popcorn bowl that had been placed there.

Oh yes. It was obvious. John, for all of his initial protestations and insistences that he was heterosexual, wanted to have sex with him. And he wanted it badly.

Sherlock, after a perfunctory examination of his own physical interest in his flatmate, had concluded it was about bloody time.

When he finally straightened up, Sherlock turned around to find John pointedly looking at the table. He might have been able to maintain the ruse that he hadn't been staring . . . if Sherlock were a complete idiot. The signs were all there: his cheeks were flushed with blood, his fingers were clenching the edge of the table and then there was the very telling and very noticeable bulge that Sherlock could see outlined by his tight jeans. Really, even Anderson would have been able to pick up on this one.

The truly selling factor came next, however.

John, as if against his own will, raised his gaze to Sherlock. It started at his neck, dancing over milky skin and tendons before sliding down to his chest. It skittered over each and every button on his shirt, and Sherlock could tell he was mentally popping them open, smoothing his fingers over the taut skin that was revealed and pushing the offending fabric off his shoulders. His lips would follow his fingers, and Sherlock would writhe under the shower of hot, open-mouthed kisses his flatmate would place on him.

Then his gaze slid down to his trousers, and Sherlock suddenly found himself without any oxygen in his lungs.

He could feel John's eyes as if they were a physical touch. He felt them dip down to graze the matching bulge that was now forming between his own legs. He felt them tease at his waistline before dropping slightly to finger the button. They popped it impatiently open a moment later and dragged his zip slowly down.

In John Watson's mind right now, he was already halfway naked, and the idea made Sherlock impossibly hot and hard in what had to be record time.

John's face turned even redder as he noticed Sherlock's condition. Now they were both hard, and they both knew it.

Sherlock hadn't planned the words that tumbled out of his mouth next, but he certainly didn't regret them. "Are you content with visual stimulation, or are you going to do something about this fantasy of yours?"

John, to his credit, didn't appear startled by the outburst. He was probably accustomed to Sherlock reading his mind by now. For one agonising moment, he stared hard at Sherlock as if seeing him for the first time. Then he rose to his feet, swiftly closed the distance between them and surprised Sherlock with a bruising kiss.

For a moment, he was utterly overwhelmed. No amount of anatomical expertise had prepared him for what it was like to actually kiss someone, let alone kiss his infuriatingly sexy flatmate. His hands clutched weakly at John's chest. He briefly considered pushing the other man away so he could get some air, but then the warmth of him began to melt into his skin. And John Watson was most certainly warm, from his lips to his torso to his thighs as they pressed eagerly against Sherlock's. After only a fraction of a second's worth of hesitation, Sherlock gave into it completely.

John's lips were firm and soft at the same time. They plied his mouth open with ease, and the wet tongue that slipped into him was nothing short of delicious. John tasted like tea and the risotto he'd made them for dinner. It was a surprisingly heady combination when paired with his hands working at Sherlock's shirt buttons and the smell of him filling his nose. John was everywhere, on him and in him at the same time.

Before even his brilliant mind could realise it, his shirt was off, and John's rough fingers were exploring him with enthusiasm. His thumb brushed over an unexpected nipple, and Sherlock gasped into his mouth.

He felt the doctor grin against his lips before he pulled back a little and breathed, "Sensitive, are we?"

Sherlock couldn't do more than nod dumbly.

John chuckled. "It's incredible to see you so dazed. You're completely undone from just a little kissing. If I hadn't seen it for myself, I would think it was impossible. The great Sherlock Holmes, unraveling at the seams."

His words were low and had a hint of darkness to them that Sherlock found inexplicably sexual. A rush of desire swept forcefully through him and left him drowning in its wake. John must have seen his reaction, because his eyes darkened with unmistakable hunger. He looked like he wanted to _devour_ Sherlock, and the detective realised he wanted nothing more than for him to do precisely that.

Their lips came together again, and this time there was no mistaking the intoxicating intent behind them. Sherlock licked experimentally at John's mouth and was rewarded with a breathy moan. He had no idea what he was doing, but through a simmering cocktail of mimicking John's movements and reacting to his vocal cues, he was able to do what he deemed was an acceptable job of it. John certainly seemed to appreciate his ministrations from his increasingly ragged breathing.

"Sherlock," he murmured, his voice muffled by the other man's mouth, "Sherlock, I want . . . I want to—"

"I know," Sherlock responded, his voice low and resonant. "I know, and I want it, too."

He watched as a shiver worked its way down John's spine, and the sight was unbearably erotic.

"We're going to need to relocate now, or I swear I'm going to bend you over this table and take you."

Sherlock only barely managed to keep his knees from buckling. The image seared into his mind with gusto. John, behind him, his face screwed up into a look of ecstasy as he pounded into him. Sherlock, gripping the table for dear life as his body was used mercilessly. Their cries ringing in the air to the rhythm of the table legs scraping against the floor with every thrust.

"That," he only barely managed to babble. "I want that."

John stared at him. "You can't be serious."

"God, John, I've never been more serious about anything in my life."

To prove his point, he crossed the few steps between them and the table and swept everything—his experiment, the pipette, his spread sheets—to the floor with one quick motion. He turned back to John, his mouth already open to offer encouragement, but he soon found it was unnecessary.

John pounced on him in an instant, transforming into a maelstrom of skin and sexuality. It seemed he was more than amenable to Sherlock's proposal. He shoved him back into a sitting position on the table and then spread his legs by inserting himself boldly between them. Then they were back to kissing, their hands working on divesting each other of as much clothing as possible. Sherlock quickly found himself sat on the table in nothing but his pants. He'd managed to get John's belt open and was pawing at his trousers when John suddenly wrapped a strong arm around his shoulders, pulled him to his chest and flipped him around. He shoved him back down again, bending at the waist with his chest pressed to the table, and Sherlock let out a surprised moan at the vulnerability of the position.

John ran his hands reverently down his spine and over his clothed arse. "I can't begin to tell you how much I've thought about this. I've wanted to get my hands on this thing for ages." He gave his arsecheeks a firm, proprietary squeeze.

"I know," Sherlock panted, quivering under the intense attention. "I've been observing you."

"Of course you have. I bet you deduced every thought that went through my head. I bet you knew every single time I had to excuse myself to my bedroom to wank because it was unbearable to watch your brilliant, maddening, bloody _gorgeous_ arse parading around the flat. Do you have any idea the things I want to do to you?"

Sherlock moaned again in response and pressed back, and this seemed to spur John into action. He heard the tantalising clicks of a zip being pulled down and shivered in anticipation. John ran his fingers down his back, and he started. The whole experience was heightened by the fact that he couldn't see where the other man was going to touch him next. John's fingers reached the waistband of his pants and hesitated for only a moment before pushing them down, revealing his arse and letting his erection spring free. Sherlock closed his eyes and bit his lip against the shameless noises that wanted to pour from him. He could feel John's gaze, heavy and appreciative, on his bare skin, admiring a part of him he'd never let anyone else see.

"God, Sherlock," he heard him breathe, "you're beautiful."

"And you are being atrociously slow about this." He pressed his hips back again, and they both gasped when his flesh came into contact with John's hot groin. "Now if you would _please_ fuck me into this table, I would be much obliged."

John growled, actually _growled_, and the next thing Sherlock knew, a hand was wrapping firmly around his prick. The startled moan that ripped unbidden from him drew another chuckle from John.

His flatmate bucked against his arse. "You're awfully demanding for someone in such a vulnerable position." His hips decelerated to a devastatingly slow grind, and Sherlock whimpered despite himself. "I bet you love this, being helpless beneath me. You spend all day faffing about like the king of the bloody world when really all you want is for someone to shove you down and put you in your place. For _me_ to shove you down. I could keep you just like this, you know." He emphasised the threat with a particularly hard thrust of his hips. "I could tease you for hours, bring you right to the edge again and again until you were an incoherent mess, begging me for mercy." He leaned down and put his lips right by Sherlock's ear, his breath impossibly hot. "And you'd scream when I finally gave it to you."

Sherlock, needless to say, was seeing stars. He gripped the table for dear life and struggled to drag air into his lungs. If he'd had any idea it was possible to be so thoroughly, achingly aroused, he would have done this sooner.

"John," he managed to breathe, "_please, _fuck me. I'll die if you don't."

He felt John shudder behind him and knew his plea would be granted.

He heard the sound of John spitting, followed by, "This part will burn a little. If you want me to stop, just say so." There was a pause, and Sherlock nodded compliantly. The next thing he felt was warm liquid being rubbed around the rim of muscles leading into his body. The tentative press of a finger inside him made him squirm, but it wasn't painful per se. John worked into him slowly, carefully, and after a few minutes Sherlock relaxed. John took that as an invitation to slip in a second finger. That one definitely made his muscles burn, but it was more than tolerable when he remember that John was inside of him right now. That thought made it seem like the most natural thing in the world.

Slowly and with all the care that could be expected from a doctor, John worked him open until he was writhing and mewling beneath him. Occasionally, his fingers brushed his prostate, and that made him moan throatily. He could feel the tension in John's body behind him and knew the man was only barely restraining himself.

"Sherlock," he groaned a moment later, "I think you're ready. Are you sure about this?"

"God, yes, do it. I can't wait any longer."

John readily accepted his invitation. A moment later, he felt something hard press against him and then sink slowly in. It burned like nothing he'd ever felt before, but it was strangely pleasurable. He heard John moaning above him and suddenly had to see. He turned his head around as far as it would go and was treated to a delicious sight. John's eyes were clenched shut just as he'd imagined, and his mouth had dropped open into a perfect "o".

"Jesus," John groaned a second later, "you're so tight and hot."

Sherlock found himself alarmingly without words. This seemed to be a pattern that had developed over the course of the evening.

John sunk deeply into him, pulled back and then tentatively thrust back in. The sound that poured from Sherlock was so raw it was inhuman.

He could hear John's clenched teeth in his voice. "All right?"

"I will be once you fucking _move._"

Sherlock thought he knew the effect his use of profanity would have on John, but the pounding he received next was far beyond his expectations. This was not a bout of gentle love making. This wasn't even sex. This was fucking: pure, animalistic rutting in the grass between two mindless beasts that just need to _get off already_. John thrust into him erratically, like he couldn't control his body, and his fingers dug crushingly into his hips. It was hard and ruthless and made electricity crackle through their veins. It was everything Sherlock wanted, everything he hadn't realised he craved. The table legs screeched as they slid along the floor, John cursed behind him with every deep plunge and Sherlock's brain overloaded on sheer sensory information. He was shaking and sweating and keening incoherently. Sherlock was barely contained inside his flesh, feeling like any minute now he was going to seep into the air around them.

John was thick inside of him, deep and filling in a way he'd never dreamed of. The pleasure was so potent it left him reeling.

Neither of them lasted long.

Sherlock was dimly aware of John reaching around and grasping his prick, and then the next thing he knew, color exploded behind the darkness of his closed eyelids. He might have called out, but it would be miraculous if he did it in any language known to man.

John followed quickly after him, and Sherlock distantly heard his name being sputtered.

Moments later, he felt a hard chest collapse on top of him, and for an eon that spanned about three minutes they both just laid there, sweaty and panting.

Gently, ever so gently, John pulled out of him. Sherlock felt surprisingly empty without his prick filling him so perfectly. He gathered what energy he had left and flopped over, finding the task of sitting up impossible. John moved over with him, bent down and kissed him full on the lips.

"That . . . was amazing."

Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle. "Did you knowingly quote yourself just then, or is that merely your automatic response to me?"

"Both."

They dropped back into silence, and the minutes stretched on as they struggled to control their breathing and heartbeats.

Eventually, John said, "We should talk about this."

"What's there to talk about?"

Blissfully, John was too knackered to formulate a genuine response. He settled on, "My bed or yours?"

"Whichever is closest."

To Sherlock's absolute surprise, John gathered him bridal style in his arms and began to carry him towards his—their—bedroom.

Sherlock blinked. "You are incredibly strong, and it is inexplicably erotic."

John chuckled. "Just wait for tomorrow morning. I'll really show you something then."

"I'm looking forward to it."

The two men then climbed into bed, wrapped themselves around each other and sank into a wholly contented sleep.

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End file.
